


Dialect Shift

by bigblueboxat221b



Series: Speaking in Tongues [9]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Codes & Ciphers, Fluff, Foreign Language, M/M, Of course Mycroft speaks Latin, Protective Big Brother Mycroft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-16
Updated: 2017-01-16
Packaged: 2018-09-17 22:14:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9348716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/bigblueboxat221b
Summary: Mycroft is superior and condescending. Sherlock is defiant, then vulnerable. John is steadfast and true. And then everything shifts...





	

“What do you want, Mycroft?” Sherlock shouted up the stairs.

John rolled his eyes, bracing himself for the certain onslaught of barbs and vicious words now that Sherlock’s brother was visiting. He’d only met Mycroft a handful of times, however he’d managed to set John’s teeth on edge, leaving the doctor with a low level of anxiety as though he’d just run a gauntlet every time they crossed paths. As it was, it was only two days since they’d seen Mycroft, which was far too soon for either Sherlock or John to be remotely pleased to see him.

“Brother,” Mycroft drawled as Sherlock entered, John two steps behind him.

John nodded, Mycroft returning the gesture, before he returned his attention to Sherlock and John escaped into the kitchen to make tea.

“What do you want, Mycroft?” Sherlock asked again, skipping the niceties as he often did.

“Quid tu facis?” Mycroft said. _What are you doing?_

Sherlock looked sharply at him, before answering, “What do you mean?”

Mycroft’s look encompassed a world of reprimands.

Sherlock ignored him, and resolutely asked John, “Is that tea coming?” as he came out of the kitchen, the good tea service in use, though the nice biscuits were conspicuously absent.

“Was that Latin?” John asked Mycroft.

In return Mycroft asked, “You understand Latin, John?”

John smiled wryly. “‘In arduis fidelis’ is about all, but I recognise it.” He poured tea for each of them, then tactfully removed himself to the sofa with his laptop, leaving the brothers to their verbal battle.

“Ahh.” Mycroft responded tactfully, before turning back to Sherlock and saying, “Nostis quid agatis?”  _Do you know what you are doing?_

Sherlock sat in John’s chair, opposite Mycroft, and looked hard at his brother. 

“I do.”

“Sententia, frater.” _Sentiment, brother._

 “Perhaps.”

“Cave, Sherlock.” _Be careful, Sherlock._

“You might be wrong, you know.”

 Mycroft smiled a reptilian smile and switched back to English. “Oh I doubt it.”

“How would you know?” Sherlock snapped.

Mycroft’s triumphant smirk was evident is his tone as he said, “How will you, until it’s too late?”

Sherlock switched now to Latin, his gaze flicking to John, an action not lost on Mycroft. “Nunc fratrem optimum mihi semper.” _Right now, brother, this is the best I’ve ever been._

“Right now.” Mycroft was sceptical, but Sherlock lifted his chin stubbornly.

“Yes, and that’s enough.”

Mycroft looked at Sherlock, long and hard, and John could see judgement, curiosity and not a little disappointment in the older brother’s face. Sherlock was impassive, his face unreadable, though Mycroft could undoubtedly write a novel from his observations.

The elder brother nodded once, and said, “In te ut sit et.” _On your head be it, then._

“Indeed,” Sherlock replied, and Mycroft rose, inclined his head to John, who was still pretending not to listen, and left.

As soon as he was done, John moved across to his own chair, recently vacated when Sherlock returned to the seat his brother had usurped.

“So,” he said, trying to be casual, “what was that about?”

Sherlock’s eyes had followed Mycroft out, then settled on John, where they had stayed as he moved.

Now, John met his eyes, and he waited. Sherlock often took a while to answer, and John was prepared to wait.

After a long pause, Sherlock said, “Nothing important.” John’s eyebrows rose of their own accord.

“Really,” he scoffed, enough sarcasm that even Sherlock noticed.

“And why was half your conversation in Latin, then?” John asked.

Sherlock looked steadily at John as though weighing options. He must have made a decision, because he finally spoke. “Mycroft was asking about you.”

John frowned. “Me? Why didn’t he just speak to me, then?” The slight stung, though he knew that Mycroft avoided human contact generally.

Sherlock sighed, and John thought he looked defeated. “He wanted to know why you are here.”

John’s confusion reached a new level.

Sherlock continued without another word from John. “He doesn’t understand relationships, John. He has no understanding of how we work together-” Sherlock cut himself off, before going on quietly, “-or how much better I am when you’re around.”

John nodded slowly, then stood and made his way over to Sherlock, leaning carefully over and smoothing the curls back from the furrowed brow, then kissing his forehead. He settled on the arm of Sherlock’s chair, heart pounding at the step he had taken. “Right now?” he asked quietly.

Sherlock shrugged defensively. “I can’t predict the future, John.”

John nodded, knowing that Sherlock was protecting himself from the unknown of this new venture.

“We’re both better for this, Sherlock,” he said quietly, and Sherlock stilled. John’s weight was on the arm of Sherlock’s chair, one hand along the back of the chair, the other resting in his lap.

Sherlock’s hand, moving hesitantly, snaked up to carefully twine with John’s, their fingers intertwining, then resting on John’s leg.

John didn’t move, just enjoying the closeness of the moment. Sherlock’s fingers were warm, and rough; John could feel the callouses on the tips of his fingers, he was attuned to notice it, since they had talked about their hands so recently. Absently, his thumb rubbed a gentle circle on the back of Sherlock’s hand, the smooth skin a fascinating contrast to the callouses on his fingertips. Sherlock’s fingers tensed, and John stilled again, waiting.

“As children,” he explained, “We were close. I idolised him, John. He was my only constant when our parents were inconstant and the nannies changed without a breath of notice.” Sherlock paused for a deep breath, then went on. “Our bedrooms were adjacent, and we would sit in our wardrobes at night and tap on the walls to communicate.”

He waited as John joined the dots and dashes from an old conversation.

“Morse code,” he breathed.

Sherlock nodded, then went on. “When Mycroft was thirteen, he was sent away to school. I was seven, too young to really understand why. He would come home from holidays and tap on the wardrobe walls, but I would never reply. That small boy went away with Mycroft and never returned. We’ve never been close since.” Sherlock sighed. “He never understood why his absence would be so upsetting, why I needed him there at home, and I suspect it’s the same now. Mycroft and relationships have never been easy companions.”

For a long time, John sat on the arm of the chair, waiting for Sherlock to be ready to move.

A long drawn in breath, then Sherlock rose. He looked uncertainly at John, and said, “Dinner?”

John smiled, allowing affection to colour his gaze before he replied, “Starving.”

Sherlock nodded, and they made their way outside, walking just a little closer as they made their way to Angelo’s, no discussion required.

**Author's Note:**

> In Arduis Fidelis (Faithful in Adversity) is the motto of the RAMC, with whom John served in Afghanistan.


End file.
